


Libra Infinitum

by FloofleBloop



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Daddy Issues, Dark, Gen, Harry Potter - Freeform, M/M, Master of Death Harry Potter, Mental Health Issues, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Time Loop, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 03:43:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14729309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FloofleBloop/pseuds/FloofleBloop
Summary: In both muggle and magical realm, there prevailed the everlasting understanding of the concept "Balance". For every good, there is evil, for every light, there is shadow, and where there is Death, there too, is Life. There isn't ever an end, only an infinite loop, an infinite balance. So it only makes sense that wherever pocket of the universe exists a Harry Potter, there too, is a version of Tom Riddle.Warning: Not beta'd, so grammar is flawed.





	Libra Infinitum

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All rights reserved belong to J.K. Rowling 
> 
> Please leave reviews and kudos and all that noise so that I may be inspired to update more frequently than my sworn once a week. :)

Chapter 1: 

August 21, 1991 - Godric’s Hollow

Harry knew, years before, the few varying ways it would end. He was as prepared as one could be in a situation like this, and if he weren’t feeling so defeated, so hurt right now, he might’ve even had it in him to admit out loud that both Ginny and himself gave their married life a great try. 

But as his wife always said, marriage cannot thrive on secrets. 

“... I can bear living in a sexless marriage, Harry, I can. That’s how much I love you. That’s how much I’m willing to,” Ginny halts abruptly, her voice catching on an unintentional whimper that escapes without her permission, “willing to… compromise.” Harry notes dully that her voice is strangled. “I don’t mind that you’re homosexual, alright, I’ve known…” she trails off, looking around lost, and Harry hates it, hates himself so fiercely for forcing her in these circumstances, “... for a while. I have,” she’s whispering now, and Harry cannot help but wish that he was better to her, better in the sense that he wishes he were someone else completely because all he does is hurt her in a way, Harry knew, you can’t ever really fix. 

“But a loveless marriage…” Ginny continued, voice getting fainter and fainter, “... I can’t. And you can’t love me Harry, not with all the secrets you’ve been keeping from me for the last ten years,” her words are coming out in between sobs now, and Harry’s muscles clench in an effort to keep him from reaching out to her because he knew she’d slap him, or worse, run into his arms which will make all of this that much harder. 

Harry remains mute, and on the outside, he knows he looks unmoved due to the glamours he’s worn like second skin for the last thirty some years. To Ginny, his features are settled into the default expression he wears when they get into rows; indifference. And as she glances up, confirming her mistaken belief, she has to turn away, trying to still her shaking shoulders, trying her best to straighten her hunched back because from where she’s standing, it really does look like Harry Potter no longer cares worth a whit of Ginerva Potter-Weasley, even if she did give her best to him for the better part of her youth. 

But she’s mistaken, Harry thinks, because if he were to wave the glamour away, to call the illusion down, she’d see his face twisted in mutual pain, in mourning of a loss so great for something that was beautiful, special, significant, but above all that, theirs. 

Alas, Harry cannot bring the glamour down. 

For the first time in a long time, there is not much Harry can do, not if he wants to keep the frightening truths a secret, not if he wants to keep Ginny safe. He can’t tell her, not because she isn’t trustworthy, but because he wants her to stay alive. 

“I know,” she’s says quietly, defeated now, but at least she isn’t facing him, “I know what with Ron and Hermione passing, it’s been rough for you,” she turns now, her eyes glassy, wide, and manic, “but it’s been hard on me too. He was my brother, Harry, and she was my best friend. They weren’t just yours to grieve.” Ginny took in a shuddering breath. “They were mine too,” her voice had raised to a whimper towards the end once again.

Harry agrees, more than agrees, but he can’t say anything now, lest he gives away his grief in his voice. He has come too far, he has done too much, sacrificed. Too. Much. For Ginny to be anything but absolutely safe. 

And that’s why Ron and Hermione were dead, wasn’t it. Because of him. Because Harry bleeding Potter could not bear to shoulder his own burden, his wretched curse that he brought onto himself, and so he ran for the people who he knew would help him, regardless of consequence. 

Such selfless individuals did not deserve their ends. 

But their ends are exactly what befell them both, when Harry, in a fit of relief and anxiety, magicked away the glamour he’d been wearing for some twenty odd years. To think he felt comfort in his resolve to finally come clean. To think anything good could’ve come out of something so foolish.

Because you see, when Harry showed them his features, his true, still very youthful features, they had also unwittingly faced Death, their death. In that instance, Harry’s face had morphed from apologetic and relieved to absolute horror as both Ron’s and Hermione’s body crumpled to the ground in heaps of ash; simply gone. 

So in this moment with Ginny, Harry keeps the only thing he deserves, that his wife of thirty years deserves; his silence. 

He then moves deliberately slow, silently, so as not to startle her out of her blank stupor, and he heads for the door. 

The faint click of the brass lock sliding shut, Harry knows, will haunt him for the rest of his existence.

… 

August 21, 1930 - Wool’s Orphanage

After feeling the chill of walking through the web of time, mid-stride, Harry shook his arms a bit, watching in slight satisfaction as his robes swirled like ribbons at the wrists, only to creep up towards the rest of his body, transforming itself into that of a muggle, time appropriate garb. He didn’t have to worry about being noticed by the muggle variety, (he had thought of charms ahead of time for that), and what with the bustling busy streets of downtown London during the Great Depression, any magicals out and about were highly unlikely to have spotted him either. 

Looking down at his rather wide black tie and Snitch lapel pin, Harry coughed, pleased. It wouldn’t be long until the cobblestones he followed led to a run down, three story, grey building. Sure enough, the presence of chalk on the sidewalk alerted Harry of children, and with great apprehension, Harry scanned the rusted plaque which read “Wool’s Orphanage”. 

Sighing, Harry caught a glimpse of his reflection in the cloudy glass of one of their narrow windows, startling a bit as he finally notices the breath of six or so curious children pressed against its pane. Smiling slightly as he gave them a wave, Harry watched in mild amusement as they scurried away, shrieking their delight and excitement. 

The worn door slowly opened to a woman in her late fifties with a stern face, haggard hair, and her apron threadbare and dirty. “Yes?” she asked, eyeing the rich cloth of his tailored suit suspiciously, “is there something you needed?” 

“Erm,” Harry replied, eyes immediately moving past her to see into the hall, “I’m here to pick up Tom.” Harry paused, then clarified, “Tom Riddle.” 

With the surprised intake of breath, Harry’s eyes were once again drawn to the woman’s person when he notice her lean away from him with raised eyebrows in disbelief. “His da, are ye?” 

“No,” Harry stated firmly, hands clasped behind his back, calm, “I’m his godfather.” 

The woman stayed silent for a moment, and after a hurried nod, she beckoned him in with a dirty rag covered hand. “Well hurry in then. I’ll send for him.” Harry peered around curiously, noting the peeling discolored wallpaper and stains on the both the rotting wooden furniture and window frames. “Tom!” the lady yelled, “someone’s come to take you away!” 

At that, an uneasy stillness settled on the building. The stampede of little feet seemed to have suddenly halted, and all whispered conversation behind sticky jam coated fingers ceased. 

It’s as if someone had pressed pause in one of Uncle Vernon’s programmes, Harry mused. 

Harry then felt the presence of a smaller magical being slide into closer proximity, so he turned his body towards the source, and was met with a shocking ice blue stare. Tom RIddle, presumably, stood at a modest three and a half feet tall, all but drowning in grey garb which were too big, and an expression that was far too old to fit on a toddler’s face. 

“Hullo, Ms. Cole. Hullo, new mister. ” a smaller, four year old Tom Riddle greeted clearly, eyes never leaving Harry’s face. 

“Good afternoon,” Harry replied warmly, “Tom Riddle, I take it?” The child nodded stiffly, and the smile on Harry’s face threatened to grow at the hesitant jerk of the child’s head, “How would you like to live with me from now on?”

Tom narrowed his eyes, wary. It wasn’t until Harry closely examined Tom’s person that he noticed the way the young boy clutched his elbow behind his back.

Harry’s smile faltered. “Who injured you?” he asked contritely, clearly. He remembered holding onto his own hurts the same way when he was young, and Harry watched carefully as Tom’s gaze grew angry, defiant. It with no small sense of satisfaction that Harry found Tom out to be far too young, still, to be self disciplined enough to settle behind a mask of calm and cool indifference. 

“No one that I haven’t already taken care of,” Tom replied, eyes dancing with malice and challenge, as if he were daring Harry to lecture him. 

Harry looked to an affronted and slightly frightened Ms. Cole, only to sigh through his nose, and shake his head as he offered Tom an outstretched hand with a smile. “Well. I’ll have to mend that now, don’t I?” Tom didn't know if the new mister meant his actions or his elbow, but he glared at the offered hand silently. 

Exactly what did this man want? To adopt him, yes, he'd said so, but no one wanted to adopt Tom. They all knew better. It wasn't exactly a secret that Father Gus stopped by routinely to perform an exorcism on him due to the whispers of children and adult alike. When he was smaller and had to be tied to the bed to endure days of no food and vigorous chanting, he cried. 

But not anymore. He was big now. He learned how to protect himself not shortly after that. 

Tom looked back and forth between the open palm and Ms. Cole, his eyebrows furrowing in thought, gaze darting about in quick consideration. Tom didn't think the man meant any harm, he could tell when people did; there was a stickiness to how the air around them felt, and Tom was never wrong about such things. But this man with the bottle green eyes felt like a clear warm day outside. He felt like cold refreshments after a full day of cloud watching, and exploring to find new scaly friends. He felt like the warmth of hot filling broth on the night of Christmas Eve. Decision made, Tom slowly brought his small hand up to clasp Harry’s, and was then softly steered towards the only part of the house he had yet to see officially: Ms. Cole’s legal office. 

A small spark of warmth ignited within Tom’s chest when he realized that he, too, was heading to the one room he never thought he’d see the inside of, where children were chosen to officially be a part of someone’s family. 

And if Harry saw the small hesitant smile blooming from the corners of Tom’s stern mouth, well. He didn’t mention anything of it.


End file.
